Child's Play
by rabbit keys
Summary: John and Harry live with their Father, an abusive, cruel man. One day Father comes home drunk when Harry is packing to escape with John. Harriet is killed, but John gets away. He slips a map to Harry's body into the jacket of his favorite person in the whole world other than Harry (a man who doesn't even know he exists)- Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. Kid-John, no pairing.
1. Murder

_I really shouldn't be writing this when I have other work-in-progress fics to finish. But then again, I have been pretty stressed recently, and I really like this idea that I thought of, so here it is._

_Warnings(?): Kid-John, kid-Harriet, adult-Sherlock, adult-Lestrade, etc. No pairings. Child abuse, cursing, murder. You know, the usual._

* * *

John first saw the tall, curly-haired man in the dark trench-coat when the man was speaking to Joan McGregor, a homeless woman who liked to give Harry and John sweets when she had them. John had wondered at the time why such a rich-looking man would talk to Joan. He ended up following the Coat Man around all day.

John was a quiet, tiny seven year old boy with blonde hair, blue eyes, and bruises in places you couldn't see. He always wore rain boots, a pair of dirty shorts, a t-shirt, and a jacket with various holes in it. He was a naturally curious child, and he developed a fascination with the way the Coat Man did things. The Coat Man was normally silent and alone, but when he got excited about something, he talked faster than normal people. John learned his name (what an important sounding name, too! Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock) when the Coat Man talked with the Silver-Haired Man about a "triple homicide," whatever that meant. Sherlock was thrilled about it, but Silver-Haired Man just put his head in his hands and groaned when Sherlock mentioned it. John watched from afar as Sherlock started speed talking. Silver-Haired Man whistled in astonishment when Sherlock was done.

"You've been really thorough," he said.

"Of course I have." Sherlock smirked. "Now, you'd better go arrest your killer!" And he pivoted on one foot and strode away in the opposite direction, coat swooshing dramatically behind him.

The real clincher, though, was when John was looking in rubbish bins behind a McDonald's for food (it was his turn that day, Harry looked the day before) and looked up when a pudgy man ran by, and, moments later, Sherlock was running right after him! John left the rubbish bins behind and ran as quietly as he could, a fair distance behind them, wanting to see what would happen. The Pudgy Man, who was holding something dark (a gun?) bumped into a woman on the sidewalk and tumbled backwards. Sherlock caught him by the shoulders, spun him around, and punched him in the face. The Pudgy Man toppled backward onto the pavement with a loud "thunk," and Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and phoned somebody, saying, "He's all yours, Lestrade, I've got him unconscious in front of my flat." The police came shortly afterwards (John made sure to hide extra carefully, Father said that if he ran away from home the coppers would bring him back, and John hadn't run away, it just might seem like it since he wasn't at home like a good boy) and arrested the Pudgy Man. Silver-Haired Man clapped Sherlock on the back, saying "well done," and John immediately began to semi-consciously worship Sherlock.

John followed Sherlock everywhere when Harry or Father didn't make him stay at home. He had memorized the route from his flat to Sherlock's flat in a week, and he knew the signs for when Sherlock was zoning out because he was thinking hard about something. John liked to think of it as a brave knight retreating to his palace to check facts on the dragon before going out to slay it. John could tell when Sherlock was lonely or happy or angry, and John knew what Sherlock ordered at a place called Angelo's every time he went there.

John told Harry about Sherlock once. Harry was John's older sister, a tough, ten year old girl with straight, shoulderlength sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. She took care of John when she could, but she wasn't always home, and she was small for her age.

"There's a tall man with curly, dark hair who solves mysteries, Harry," John murmured excitedly in the small room the two of them shared. "His name is Sherlock. He's very pretty, and he works with the Silver-Haired Man and the police."

Harry clicked her tongue, a flicker of fear crossing her face briefly. "You shouldn't go near the coppers so much, John. Father would get upset."

"Father doesn't know," John replied in a quieter voice than before, but he didn't mention the police again.

After a few moments more of tense waiting (when was Father coming home? Was he coming home at all?), Harriet said, "Tell me a story, John."

John smiled and snuggled up to her. She wrapped her arms around his small, malnourished frame. Harry tried her best to protect him, and John would tell a story. John told stories when one cleaned the other's cuts and bruises in the cramped bathroom, and John told stories when one had a nightmare and woke the other up. He was rather good at it. At least, he and Harry thought so.

"Once upon a time," John began, "there was a knight named Sir Sherlock. He was the bravest, smartest, greatest knight in all the land. King Silver often sent Sir Sherlock on quests to slay dragons. One day, Sir Sherlock was ordered to go slay the Bad Yellow Dragon that kept a prince and a princess in a tower. Sir Sherlock put on his blue cloak and rode off immediately. The princess, who was very smart, fashioned a rope out of bedsheets and started climbing down the tower wall with it. Her brother, the prince, was right behind her. As Sir Sherlock rode up, the dragon noticed that they were escaping, and he tried to swipe at the children with his long claws..." John stopped whispering when he noticed that Harry had nodded off to sleep. He finished the story in his head.

Sir Sherlock slayed the dragon, rescued the children, and brought them back to the palace to live happily ever after.

"The end," John whispered, and then the sound of a slammed door startled him and jolted Harriet awake.

Father was home.

The siblings sat in terrified silence, listening to the heavy footsteps of their parent clomping around. Was he drunk? No, not tonight. He'd be stumbling more and yelling already if he was drunk. They heard him sit down in a chair heavily and sigh. Bad day at work, then?

Not good. Not good at all.

"Johnny!" He yelled suddenly. "Get over here."

Harry grabbed his arm as he stood up. "Don't," she whispered fearfully. "I'll go."

"No," he whispered back, "it's okay. He probably just wants a drink."

After a moment, Harry let him go, looking sad and afraid.

"I said get over here!" Father yelled again, and John hurried out of the bedroom and to the kitchen.

"Yes, sir?" He said in a quavery voice. Father, sitting in the Squeaky-Leg Chair, was not as tall as Sherlock, but he was thickly built, and he could make you hurt if he wanted to. His blue eyes were cold and hard and mean, and his bulbous nose had nostrils that were quite fond of flaring when he was angry. He worked as a bouncer at something called a "strip club." Father said it was very important.

"Did you not hear me the first time I called for you?" Father asked in a low voice.

Uh-oh. John gulped. There was no good way out of this one. If he said that he hadn't heard Father, he'd get in trouble for not paying attention. If he said that yes, he had heard, then he'd get in trouble for not obeying the first time. If he said that Harry stopped him from coming, then Harry would get in trouble. He stayed silent, hoping Father would just let it slide today.

He didn't.

"I asked you a question, boy!" Father growled.

"Y-yes, sir, I heard you."

"Why didn't you come the first time I called you, then?"

John licked his split lip, searching desperately through his mind for an answer. Why couldn't he be as smart as Sherlock? Sherlock would know what to say. Or better yet, Sherlock would punch Father in the face, just like the Pudgy Man, and Father would never hurt Harry or John again.

Apparently John was quiet for too long, because he was snapped out his thoughts when Father backhanded him across the face. John stumbled back, putting a hand to his cheek in surprise. He bit his lip again to halt the tears in their tracks. Crying would just make it worse.

"That'll teach you not to listen," Father muttered, and he shoved John roughly aside and walked to the fridge. John clenched the hand that wasn't holding his face and composed himself. "Johnny," Father said as he pulled out a bottle of beer, "be a good little boy and make Father a sandwich. I've got taxes to pay." He walked past John and sat back down at the table. "You and Harriet should be grateful, you know. Not everybody has a parent who works hard and keeps a roof over their heads."

"Yes, sir," John said, and he went to go make his father a sandwich. The peanut butter and jelly were easy to get, since they were in the fridge, and the butter knife was easily taken from a drawer. The plates were in a cabinet, so John got the rickety stool and climbed into the countertop to get a plate down. He picked the cleanest one there, and then he walked carefully on the counter top over to where the fridge was. Since he was so high up, he could reach the bread basket with no problem. John carefully got off of the countertop and then made the sandwich. He put the jelly and peanut butter back in the fridge, put the knife on the stacks of dirty dishwater in the sink, and started taking the plate over to Father.

If he could just place the food in front of Father quietly, he could slip away back to his and Harry's room, and they could go to bed. John just had to cross this floor-

John's toe struck a broken floorboard and he fell to the ground in a sprawl, sending the sandwich flying and shattering the plate. A few shards cut his skin. Father swore and stood up, his chair screeching against the floor as it was shoved back, his temper exploding as all the anger from his bad day focused itself on the easy target: John.

"Damnit!" He yelled, and his boot stomped down hard on John's back. John cried out and curled in on himself instinctively, arms covering his head and knees blocking his stomach. Father kicked John's shin. Jog's legs jerked away from his stomach on a reflex, and Father took the opportunity to get him in the stomach.

The world went grey as the breath rushed out of John. He would've thrown up if there was anything to throw up in his stomach. As it was, he only retched a little.

"Clean this up, faggot," Father growled, and John immediately started scooping up the shards in trembling hands. Blood ran down his fingertips and dripped onto the floor every time he reached for a new shard, because each piece cut him a little bit. He stood up and put the shards in the small trash container beneath the sink, and Father soon had him back on the floor again.

"Worthless little shit," Father muttered, kicking him once more. "Get out of my sight. Out!" He roared, and John scrambled away, wheezing and clutching his stomach with bleeding hands. When he got to his bedroom he closed the door quietly. Harriet saw him and tears spilled from her eyes.

"Idiot!" She scolded in a tearful whisper. "I told you I should've gone."

"I tripped on the floorboards," John explained weakly, and Harry wrapped him in a big hug. Then she felt a spot on her back grow wet when John hugged her back. She pulled away and seized his wrist. Harry gasped at the sight of his cut palms and fingers.

Before John could say a word, she had gone to the bathroom to find the roll of bandages she had stolen from a store last Tuesday.

Harry started wrapping up his hands with the bandages, so John started another story, his voice very hushed. He didn't want Father to hear. Father hated stories. Harry said he hated them so much because Mummy used to tell her stories, but John didn't remember. The only things John knew of Mummy were things that Harriet told him since Mummy died giving birth to John.

John told one of Harriet's favorites. "Once upon a time, a warrior princess with a large sword went out to slay a goblin king..."

* * *

John was always frustrated when Sherlock went with the Silver-Haired man behind the yellow tape. John was not allowed to speak to the police, so he never snuck under the yellow tape to see what Sherlock was doing. He always waited for him several yards from the tape. Sometimes it took minutes for Sherlock to come back. Sometimes it took hours. If it started to get dark, though, John would stop waiting and head home, because Father got mad if he wasn't home by 10PM, and John didn't have a watch.

Sherlock had gone behind the yellow tape today and hadn't come back for a half hour. The sun was starting to go down. John stood up and brushed some of the dust off of his old shorts. He stalled a little bit by glancing at the yellow tape again and again and adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. No sign of Sherlock. Oh well. Maybe he'd get to see him tomorrow.

John was very good at memorizing directions, so he only got lost once on the way from the yellow tape area to Sherlock's flat. From there, getting home was so easy, he could do it blind. Even though Sherlock didn't come out today, John was in a great mood. He had found a box of used crayons while waiting for Sherlock, and he couldn't wait to get home and share them with Harriet. John hummed a little tune as he walked down an alley. He noticed a kitten sitting on a rubbish bin and stopped to pet it. "What a cutie you are," he crooned, and the kitten purred and rubbed up against his hand. It was black with green eyes, and really fluffy. He wished he could keep it, but Father wouldn't like that.

He got home shortly after that. John opened the door slowly, peeking his head in, looking for his sister. "Harry?" He whispered. He heard a creaking sound in the bedroom. Harry, probably. He tiptoed through the flat and moved the bedroom door a little, peering through the crack. "Harry?" He whispered again. She jerked from where she was sitting crosslegged on the blanket on the floor and turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

"John," she gasped, sniffling. John saw that she was developing a black eye, and he let out a wordless cry and ran to her.

"What happened?" He murmured in a sad little voice.

"I was just in the wrong place, wrong time, that's all." She shook her head, wiping her tears with her sleeve. "Now, John," she began, voice becoming serious, "he'll probably be drunk tonight. Stay in your room, alright? If he calls for you, I'll go."

John decided to change the subject. Harriet looked really upset, and he hated that. "I found some crayons, Harry, look." He flashed the box in front of her face. "Have we got any paper left?"

Harry blinked in surprise, wide blue eyes framed with long black lashes and hints of tears. Her surprise turned to glee. "You wonderful little hedgehog!" She exclaimed, though her voice was hushed. She ruffled his hair and got up to fetch a notebook. John beamed at her as she tore out two sheets of paper and handed one to John. John lay on the floor on his stomach and Harriet bent over her paper crisscross applesauce style. John drew his best seven-year-old's representation of Sherlock, practically a stick figure with curly dark hair, grey eyes, a long coat, and a blue scarf. Sherlock was hitting the Pudgy Man. Harry drew a rather good drawing of a celebrity she saw on the cover of a magazine at Tesco's. She wasn't wearing much, though. John commented on this. Harry scowled. "Shut up, you," she muttered, so John shut up.

They drew for a while, John wasn't sure how long. It was dark out, though, and if he peeked out of the bedroom window, he could see the moon hanging bright in the sky, like an uncracked, recently washed dinner plate. Father still wasn't home, which was good, and not particularly unusual if he was getting drunk. John secretly hoped that Father stayed the night away from home, even though that kind of thinking meant he was a Bad Son.

"Go to sleep, John," Harry said, stroking his hair. John blinked. When had he lay down? He blinked up at Harry sleepily. "Sshh," she murmured, "go back to sleep."

John closed his eyes, his tired body betraying him to slumber. He didn't notice Harry start packing a bag. He didn't notice Harry put their remaining belongings in the duffel she had taken from the rubbish and taped up with duct tape just the other day. He was too far in sleep.

* * *

Harriet wasn't going to let Father hurt John and her anymore. No way. No. John was only seven, for god's sake, drawing pictures with crayons and telling stories. This wasn't right, no matter what Father said. Nope. She and John were going to run away tonight. Harry had a plan. They'd live off of the food they found or stole, like they did now. Fast food places had bathrooms. There were lots of homeless people already who lived in sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. They could do that, too. She just had to get John out of the flat before Father got home.

Harry exhaled as she put the crayons and the paper in the duffel. She had already put the spare jackets and underwear in the bag, along with one of their three blankets. Everything was in order, except...

Maybe she should get some food from the kitchen. Just to tide them over for a couple days. John could sleep a little longer while she got the food. Harry stood up with the duffel bag and tiptoed out of the room, hesitating before she closed the door. Harry watched John's tiny chest rise and fall as he slept on the floor. The bandages on his hands were soaked in dried blood. She'd have to change them soon. She took a deep breath and closed the door, tiptoeing away, the duffel bag clutched tight to her chest.

She got to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Peanut butter, jelly, some old carrots, beer- They didn't need the beer. Harry stuffed the foods in the bag.

_BAM_

The door slammed open. Heavy footsteps approached the kitchen. Harry froze like a deer in the headlights. "Harriet," her Father yelled, "I need something to ea- Harriet!" He stood shocked, in the doorway of the kitchen. Harry stared at him with wide eyes, one hand still clutching the bag of carrots. The duffel fell to the floor from her limp fingers.

"It's-" She swallowed, tiny body shaking. "It's not what it looks like."

"You were gonna leave," Father said accusingly, "You were packing up to leave me! After all I've done for you two. I clothe you, give you a roof over your head, and this is how you repay me."

Harriet wanted to scream at him that he hadn't done anything for them, anything at all, but she was too scared.

He stumbled blearily towards her blue eyes narrowing. "You'll pay for this, you and your stupid brother." His eyes widened. "It was his idea, wasn't it!"

No. No, John had no idea. Harriet knew he'd go after John first- She had to act. Now.

Harriet ran forward and kicked him in the shin, then dashed past towards the bedroom. She heard him behind her, she hadn't stalled him for long. She reached the door to the bedroom. Thinking fast, she locked the door.

Harriet could have gone in there with John and locked it behind her. She had the time. If she had, though, Father would've broken down the door and hurt them both. If she stayed outside the room as a distraction, John would have time to escape. She just hoped he had the sense to leave through the bedroom window.

* * *

John woke up when he heard Harry scream.

He looked up from the floor, instantly aware of everything around him. Harry was not in the room. The crayons and papers were gone, the door was closed, a blanket had been draped over him. It was dark in the room, no lights, the window was closed, the moon was lower in the sky now. He stood up and ran to the door. He heard the horrible, awful sound of beating on flesh, and Harry's cries of pain.

John grasped the doorknob and twisted, trying to pull open the door. Tears filled his eyes. "Harry!" He yelled, tugging at the door with his bony arms, with as much might as he could.

"You little bitch, trying to leave!" Father yelled, and the sound of bone cracking reverberated through John's ears. Harry shrieked, and John started to sob.

"Harry!" John yelled. His tiny fists hit the wooden door. He couldn't get out. It was locked, and Harry was getting hurt. His hands bled, wounds from the plate shards open. He continued to hit the door anyway.

_snap, snap, snap._ More broken bones. Harry shrieked. A loud thud, and Father cursed. "Bitch!" John heard him slap Harry, then a boot cracking a rib.

He couldn't listen anymore. No, no no. He'd had enough. John slid down and curled up into a ball, covering his ears with his hands. "Harry," he cried, "Harry." He tried not to listen to the beatings and the crying and the yelling. "Somebody help," he whispered through clenched teeth. He was too small to break down the door, he was too small to fight off Father, he was too small to do anything.

And then it was quiet.

John took his hands from his ears in surprise and fear. Why was it quiet? Was that good or bad?

"Oh, no," Father said in a sad, drunken slur. "I killed you. And you looked so much like your mummy, too."


	2. Ring Around The Rosie

John sat on the floor in stunned silence.

Dead.

Harry was dead.

Father killed her.

The shock was too much for John. Harry. His sister. Smiling at him. Screaming, in fact, just a few moments ago. Not...alive? No, no, Father was lying, he had to be. John wouldn't believe it until he saw it. Nope, Harry wasn't dead. Couldn't be. Maybe she was pretending to be dead. Maybe she was sleeping.

John stood up and put his ear to the door, hoping to hear something. The floorboards creaked outside of the door.

"I'm sorry, Harriet, but it wasn't my fault." Father said, slurring his words. "Your fault. You wanted to leave me with Johnny. You can't leave."

What? John blinked. Harry was going to leave with him? Run away from Father? The idea was incredibly appealing.

Father grunted, and John snapped his thoughts back to the present. He pressed his head to the door, listening. Heavy footsteps moved towards the back of the flat. There was a back door there that led to an alley, and John and Harriet's bedroom window looked out on the alley. John ran to the window and pressed his face to the window pane anxiously.

Father, dirty and obviously drunk, had Harriet's unmoving body slung over his shoulder. Her arms were at odd angles, and John could faintly see bloodstains in the moonlight. He felt sick as fear and sorrow washed over him. Harriet was dead. She wasn't breathing, her bones were broken, she was covered in blood. John let out a sob as Father dumped her unceremoniously to the ground and stumbled back inside the house. Hearing the horrible man's footsteps enter the kitchen, John put his bleeding fist in his mouth, silent as a rock, ignoring the coppery taste of his own blood, desperately hoping that Farher wouldn't break down the door and come after him next.

The sound of soft things hitting the ground and some jars smashing confused John. What was Father doing now?

John waited until Father had gone outside again to take his fist out of his mouth. He peered out the window. Father was- John took a deep breath and tried to get rid of all emotions. Father was stuffing Harriet into a large duffel bag. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and started walking out of John's line of sight.

The blonde boy's fingers scrambled for the lock on the window. He had to follow Father to see what he was going to do to Harriet. John unlocked it and used as much force as he could muster to lift the window open. It took him a minute or two, and he got bits of splinters stuck in his bandages, but he did it, and he let out a silent cheer, grinning slightly as he climbed out and dropped to the ground. Then he remembered why he had had to leave through the window and he stopped grinning.

Tiptoeing carefully, John followed Father down the busy streets of London (who pays attention to a man with a duffel bag or a tiny little boy in shorts and a jacket?) as Father drunkenly wandered around. John tried to remember as many street names as he could, mentally making a map that would lead from his flat to wherever Father was going.

They ended up near a very, very large river. John stayed back since he didn't know how to swim. He watched from afar as Father got closer and closer to the water, even wading in a little. Father then took the duffel in both hands and heaved it into the water. It submerged with a loud "plunk" and a splash. John opened his mouth to shriek in horror, but he stopped himself in time by shoving his fist in his mouth and biting down on it again.

If there had been any slight possibility at all that Harriet had been alive inside that bag, there was none now. Neither of the children could swim, and it's almost impossible to unzip a duffel bag from the inside while the bag is wet and sinking and you're running out of air. If Harry had been alive still, she was drowning now, trapped in the confined, dark bag in the cold water. Just the thought of it made John want to scream. His face was wet with tears as he fled the river.

Where could he go, though?

He stopped running when he reached his flat, realizing that he couldn't stay there, since Father might come after him. He desperately tried to think of someplace safe. Where, where, where, where-

Sherlock's flat.

The neat little idea popped into his head almost instantly. He blinked in suprise at the simplicity of it. If he arrived before daybreak and hid near the bins, he could sleep until noon, when the sun was high in the sky, and then he had to leave. He didn't want the landlady to discover him near her bins. She seemed nice from afar, but then again, so did Father's landlord, and he turned out to be really mean. John was sure that he noticed what Father did to him and Harry on a daily basis, but Father was paying the rent plus a little extra on time every month, so the landlord turned a blind eye.

John walked the familiar route from his flat to Sherlock's flat miserably, trying to focus on the way he was going instead of his sister. He made it to the rubbish bins in good time. Curling up in between them, he put his head in his hands and started to cry. Harry was dead. His beautiful, kind, happy sister who liked to call him a hedgehog and mess with his hair and make toast was gone and never coming back. John sobbed himself to sleep, arms wrapped around his legs and face buried him his knees. A few hours later, the sun peeked up over the horizon. John slept through the dawn.

* * *

The little boy awoke with a start when he heard the sound of Sherlock yelling for a taxi. He glanced around frightfully, wondering where he was. He wasn't at home!

Ah, Sherlock yelled for a taxi. These bins- He was near Sherlock's flat. John stood up and stretched, but he didn't yawn, because he was almost sure that if Sherlock hadn't already gotten into a taxi, he would hear him, because he believed that Sherlock was just that good at observing things.

John suddenly sat back down as what had happened last night came back to him in a rush. Harry was dead. Father threw her in a bag into the river.

"Shut up," he muttered to himself. "You should- you need to stop. Don't think about it."

He had the urge to go back to the river, though. Some primal instinct within him told him to go back to the river. John decided to obey that instinct, but after a meal. He was really, really hungry. He wandered off to the nearest fast food place and rooted around the dumpsters there until he found a half-eaten burger that didn't look too old or gross. It was heaven to his empty stomach.

After that, John tried to make his way back to the river. He took the route he knew best, though it was a bit long: from the fast food place to Sherlock's flat, then to his flat (he didn't actually go in his flat- he crept silently around the flat next to his), and finally to the river. Its shore seemed to extend forever in both directions, marred only by a soaking wet cloth mass laying off to the right.

Wait, what?

John meandered over to the strange thing, stumbling over a few pebbles and almost slipping and falling. He realized it was the duffel bag Harry had been in when he crouched down beside it. It was laying on its side. Spellbound, with some inner sense of curiosity mixed with dread, he outstretched a trembling hand and pulled on the zipper. The bag opened enough for a limp, grey arm to protrude slightly, fingers open as if to ask for spare change. John screamed and scrambled away. He turned from the smelly limb and lost the burger he had consumed earlier. His bandaged hands reached up to cover his face, which was wet with tears. _No no no no no no no no nonononono._

John stood shakily and his boot-clad feet began moving on their own, taking him far far away from the horrible bag and its contents. He ran blindly to his flat and then to Sherlock's and then even past that, all the way to an alley next to a convenience store, where he collapsed. Numbness consumed his mind.

"Mummy, can you give me the notebook now?" A little girl about John's age and her mother emerging from the store caught John's attention and he watched them with dull eyes.

"No, dear, wait until we get home." The mother replied.

"But I want to draw the maps now!"

"There'll be plenty of time to draw your map of Fuzz-Cheryl's queendom later." The mother assured her daughter tiredly, as if she'd heard this a million times before, but John didn't hear the girl's next whiny response. His brain went into overdrive. The words "map" and "Cheryl" made him think of "mystery" and "Sherlock," and if you connected "map," "mystery," "Sherlock," and the horrid events that had transpired in the past twenty four hours, you'd get what John got: the idea to draw a map to Harry's body and give it to Sherlock so Sherlock would solve the crime and have Father arrested, and John wouldn't have to see Harry's..._body_ again.

John knew exactly what he had to do to make this crazy idea work. It was risky, it was foolish, and it was dangerous, but he was going to do it anyway.

He would go back to his flat.

* * *

John pushed open the door to his flat fearfully, peeking his head in to listen for any sign of Father. Father _should_ be at work, but it never hurt to check.

Well, sometimes it did, but whatever.

Upon hearing nothing that suggested that Father was home early, John ran as lightly as he could to the bedroom, where he looked for the crayons and paper until remembering that they had vanished from there last night before he had woken to Harry's screams. John left the bedroom and walked quietly through the house until a blanket on the kitchen floor caught his eye. He went into the kitchen and saw that smashed jars of peanut butter and jelly were on the ground (that must've been the glass shattering sound last night), some blankets and clothes (all Harry's and his) had been stacked on the table, and the crayons and paper were next to the blankets. John rushed to the table and snatched up the crayons and remaining blank paper, and after a moments thought, took the time to tape up the pictures that Harry and he had drawn last night that Father had apparently ripped up and placed on the table. John held up the pieced-together pictures a few minutes later. They were raggedy, covered in scotch tape, and not very good quality, but he folded them up and put them in his jacket pocket anyway. A brief visit to the fridge revealed a bag of carrots and a bag of peanuts, both of which John took. He would eat them later when he could keep food down.

John left the flat as fast as he could and practically ran the long way to Sherlock's flat. When he got there he knelt near the landlady's bins to catch his breath, and he drew as much of the route to the river as he could remember.

Having grown up on the streets of London, John knew London pretty well, so his map wasn't bad for a poorly educated, seven year old boy living in poverty. He circled Sherlock's flat and copied the numbers on the door onto the map right next to the circle: 221. From there, he drew the route to his own flat, and then from his flat to the river where Harry was (he put an "x" here). The crayons helped a lot- The actual route was in red, while the rest was in blue or black. Unfortunately, John's cut hands had started bleeding again, so there were some red fingerprints and stains on the paper, and John's hands hurt awfully when he used the crayons. He hasn't noticed the pain so much before because of the adrenaline, which had worn off by now.

All he had to do next was catch Sherlock at a moment when he was distracted or deep in thought so John could slip the map in his pocket. He couldn't just _give_ the map to Sherlock in person. Sherlock would have questions that John wasn't quite ready to answer just yet.

John ended up not having to wait that long. A taxi pulled up to Baker Street about four minutes later and Sherlock sprung from it eagerly, muttering to himself. John crept out and stood near the wall of a neighboring flat. Sherlock suddenly froze and got "that" look on his face, eyes wide, eyebrows arched, hands extended, and mouth slightly open in an "oh." John chose this moment to strike. He ran to Sherlock and shoved the paper as far as he could into Sherlock's pocket and took off in another direction in a sprint. Sherlock was too deep in thought to notice or care.

John just hoped that Sherlock discovered the map in his pocket soon.


	3. A Pocket Full Of Posie

Sherlock's mind raced. "Oh," he said, and he connected the dots and figured out who the murderer was in his most recent case. Raoul, the houseboy- botox injections with poison. Kenny Prince had been insulted and then threatened with disinheritance, and Raoul had grown accustomed to his rich lifestyle. Sherlock had come across this case on accident, actually; he had asked for something to work with and Molly had given him a woman supposedly dead of tetanus, but the cut was too fresh. He investigated deeper and came up with this. Lestrade would be thrilled (or not thrilled, really, because for some reason Lestrade preferred it when deaths were natural and not murder, but what fun was that?)

Sherlock grinned and snapped out of his mind palace. He hailed a taxi again. It looked like he wouldn't be having tea in 221B just yet.

The taxi ride to the police station was uneventful, and his report to Lestrade was even more uneventful. Lestrade groaned when Sherlock told him of Raoul's crime and he sent officers to arrest the man.

"Why can't it ever be a normal death with you, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked wearily. Sherlock merely smirked.

"Call me if there are any new cases. I'm off." And he took a taxi back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greeted him at the door.

"Where have you been?" she asked, but she was smiling, so he knew she wasn't mad.

"Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Hudson, I solved a murder when I got here and had to go back and tell Lestrade." Sherlock gave her a peck on the cheek and stepped inside.

"Couldn't you have just called him?" She asked, and Sherlock blinked.

"I could have, yes."

"Well, take your phone out of your pocket before you hang up your coat so if he calls you you'll answer. Don't ignore him again, young man, he might need your help. I'll get some biscuits out and we can have a little chat about those blasted bullet holes you put in my your wall- But just this once, dear, no biscuits for you next time unless you bring them yourself." The little old woman walked into her flat to get the biscuits. Sherlock knew it would never be "just this once."

He obediently reached into his pocket to get his phone and was surprised when his hand closed around a piece of paper. His mind went into overdrive- He hadn't put any paper in his pockets recently. Sherlock pulled it out and held it up- a map of some sort? Deductions whirred through his brain.

_A map, drawn in crayon- starting at "221" (probably 221 Baker Street), ending with an x. A route in red, the entire thing drawn in crayon. Bloodstains in fingerprints and splotches- small prints, so a child, child deduction supported by the crayon. Crumpled. Slipped into his pocket without him noticing. Crayon imprints deep, fresh blood- still sticky._

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll have to skip the lecture today," Sherlock yelled with barely contained excitement. "I think I've just gotten another case! If you could bring up some biscuits, though, that would be lovely, we'll be having a visitor shortly."

"Really?" She replied, but Sherlock did not respond, he only reached into his pocket again and phoned Lestrade.

"Lestrade, I've found something. Be at Baker Street in ten minutes. Don't bother bringing any of your officers."

"What is it?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock smiled in anticipation, even though no one was around to see. "Something new."

* * *

Lestrade sat in an armchair and stared up at the pacing Sherlock. Sherlock's coat was hanging on the back of the door, and the consulting detective was clad in black trousers, dress shoes, and a purple shirt that was a bit too tight. "Are you gonna tell me what's up?" Lestrade asked through a mouthful of biscuit. The detective inspector was munching contentedly on Mrs. Hudson's finest while Sherlock did his best to resist staring at that paper some more.

"I found something. A map." Sherlock said excitedly.

Lestrade leaned forward. "Like a treasure map?"

"I'm not sure. It was in _my_ pocket, Lestrade. I didn't put it there." Sherlock suddenly faced him with a fascinated expression on his face. "A child managed to slip something into my pocket."

Lestrade blinked. "Wait, what? A child? Hang on, let me see this map." He put his plate down on a coffetable and opened his hand. Sherlock made an irritated noise in the back of his throat and placed the mysterious map in Lestrade's hands. "This is drawn in crayon! Come on, Sherlock, I thought we had a real case here."

Sherlock snarled, "It _is _a real case! Do you not see the bloodstains on the paper? The bloody fingerprints are small, child-size. A child, a small one, took the time to draw a map, so it's important, and found a way to slip it into my pocket without me noticing. Or they broke into the flat, but that's much less likely."

Lestrade looked conflicted. "Are you sure this is-"

"_I_ didn't notice? Me? Someone put something in _my_ pocket without me noticing, Lestrade!" Sherlock threw his hands into the air and began to pace again, and then stopped, facing Lestrade with a sharp look. "A child was bleeding when they drew this. Aren't _detective inspectors_ supposed to pay attention to the well-being of the public? Not much cop, this 'caring' lark."

"Alright, alright, we'll follow the bloody map." The older man held up his hands in surrender. "I needed a break from Anderson's whining anyway."

Sherlock smirked. "That's the spirit! Come on, then, we've got a trail to follow!" He threw on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Give me the map."

"Alright." Lestrade stood and handed him the map. The duo rushed downstairs and called a farewell to Mrs. Hudson before walking out the door. Sherlock held the map up and turned it a few times before striding quickly down the sidewalk.

They made sharp turns, crossed several streets, and ended up going through some back alleys through poorer parts of London. Lestrade whispered, "I don't like the looks of this, Sherlock," and Sherlock did not reply. A few minutes later Sherlock said, "This is a stopping point."

"We're here?"

"No, but this flat- It's important somehow. The trail goes around all other buildings, but it goes directly through this one and also around it, like the child was accustomed to going through here but remembered that I would have to go around so he or she made the line split." Sherlock's eyes flitted over the place rapidly, taking in every detail. Grimy and poor, not suited for anyone old because of the germs, probably single, middle aged man, going by the estimated number of rooms. At least one child must visit here often or live here.

"Well, it's not like we can just knock on the door and walk through their house." Lestrade said, starting to walk around the place.

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"'Oh, sorry, we're just gonna randomly walk through your flat because we found a map drawn by a five year old. Don't mind us, it won't take long.' They'll think we're nutters, Sherlock!" Lestrade looked at Sherlock as if he was truly crazy. Sherlock brushed off the slight and strode past the grey-haired detective inspector.

"Come on, we're almost there," he said as he looked at the map. The 'x' was close now. The excitement was starting to get to Sherlock- What could possibly be so important that a bleeding child would draw a map to it and slip it in Sherlock's pocket? Why _Sherlock_, of all people? Everyone knew that Sherlock was incredibly antisocial, so why would a child seek him out? And why would the child not just come up to him when he or she sought him out? Why the secrecy and the mystery? Why not just lead him to wherever they were going? Although, the route seemed a bit familiar now. Sherlock knew every street in London.

They ran the last stretch of the way there and Lestrade bent down, panting, when Sherlock stopped.

"It was just a map to the Thames," the detective inspector said, voice dripping with disappointment. Sherlock frowned. No, no, there was something else, there had to be. It couldn't _just_ be the Thames! He looked for something, anything, on the shore that he could have possibly missed, and his eyes locked on a strange duffel bag. It didn't look like anything special, but at least it was _something_.

"There," he said, pointing to it. Lestrade squinted.

"Is that a bag or something?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock didn't answer. He practically ran towards the bag in hopes that it would prove to be something special. He walked around it in a circle and his bright eyes noticed something grey and limp sticking out. Kneeling down, Sherlock pulled on his black gloves he always had in his pockets- not rubber gloves, but fabric ones- and grabbed it. It was a human arm. "Lestrade!" He yelled, and Lestrade jogged over.

"What?"

Sherlock grasped the zipper and yanked, jumping backward. A grey, bloated corpse spilled out of the bag and Lestrade swore.

"It's a kid," he said in horror, "oh, god, it's a kid."

It was a kid. A small girl, probably about ten or eleven, with multiple bone fractures, bruises, and other injuries- beaten to death and then thrown into the Thames. Probably abused. The child who drew the map to the girl maybe watched it happen or discovered her- maybe they were related? Did the little girl predict her own death and draw this map? Sherlock grabbed her hand and held one finger next to one of the bloody fingerprints on the map. No, the corpse's fingers were too big. A smaller child drew the map.

"Female, about ten to twelve years old, beaten to death by a man- a short man, but a strong one. Cause of death wasn't drowning," Sherlock said after pressing on her chest several times and seeing how much water came out.

"So," Lestrade began reluctantly, "a small kid saw the girl being thrown into the Thames and decides to alert the authorities? Why didn't he just tell us directly?"

"Who'd believe him?" Sherlock said. "Or, maybe he or she didn't want to have to see the corpse again, so he or she didn't lead us here in person."

"Either way," Lestrade said, getting out his phone, "I'm going to need to make a few calls."


	4. Ashes, Ashes

_Note: John is very young, so his grammar and speech aren't the best. Sherlock shows a lot of self-restraint by not correcting him every four seconds. _

_It's really fun to try and read everything in the characters' voices. John's voice, of course, you just kind of have to make up._

* * *

Sherlock entered the morgue quickly. Lestrade and Molly were talking in hushed whispers near the body of the small girl that the map had led to. Neither noticed Sherlock until he stood directly behind them and said in his baritone voice, "So, Molly, what have we got here?"

Molly gave a little shriek and Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin. "Jesus Christ!" he blurted.

"Sherlock, actually." The consulting detective corrected.

"W-we haven't got a name." Molly stammered. "Just calling her Jane Doe for now. It's sad, really. _She's_ sad. How'd you find her?"

"Got a tip." Sherlock said vaguely. "I've got my homeless network keeping their eyes and ears open for any rumors of blonde ten year old girls gone missing, but no luck so far."

"Think this one'll make the papers?" Molly asked.

"Not likely. A dead body is found on the shore of the Thames on an average of one per week, and there aren't any missing children on record that match 'Jane Doe's' face." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "Now, Lestrade, with me. We're going back to Baker Street."

Lestrade blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"Our little friendly helper will probably be hanging around the flat to see if I followed their instructions and found the girl. This is our chance to get more details."

Molly looked confused but didn't interrupt.

"How d'you know he or she will be at your flat?" Lestrade asked, crossing his arms.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "This child knows me well enough to be able to slip a piece of paper into my pocket without me noticing. Of course he or she will be watching the flat. Come _on_, now, it's getting dark, you wouldn't want some poor, helpless child to be waiting in the cold, would you?" With a smirk he turned smartly and left the room. Molly looked more confused than ever, but instead of attempting to explain, Lestrade just thanked her for her time and bid her good day. He hurried to catch up with Sherlock.

"What will we do if he or she really _is_ waiting for us?" Lestrade asked.

"We'll just have to see when we get there." Sherlock said with barely concealed excitement.

* * *

John shivered and rubbed his hands together as he stood a few meters away from Sherlock's flat. It was dark outside, and there had been no sign of Sherlock since John had tucked the paper into Sherlock's pocket and returned a half hour later. John wondered if Sherlock had gone into his flat and had not come out or if he had found Harry and was now...wherever they take bodies. It was an m-word, John was pretty sure. He guessed it didn't matter. Sherlock would hopefully be here soon. John wanted to smack himself- if only he hadn't stayed away from the flat for so long, he would know whether or not Sherlock was already inside.

A taxi pulled up in front of 221. John watched closely as two men stepped out of it- Sherlock and Silver-Haired Man! They were here! Now, the question was did they or did they not find Harry's body? He tiptoed closer until he could hear their conversation. Sherlock seemed to be speaking louder than usual.

"...the little girl we found at the shore today," he was saying, and John's eyes watered. He smiled through the brimming tears. Sherlock found her! Sherlock found Harry!

Silver-Haired Man said in a voice just as loud, "It's too bad we can't figure out who she is," and John's heart sunk. Of course they wouldn't know Harry. They'd never met her before, so how could they know? What should he do?! Should he reveal himself and tell them who Harry is?

Thinking of an unmarked grave in the smallest corner of a cemetery, a burial that Harry would certainly have if no one knew her, made up John's mind. He walked a meter or two over to where the two adults were standing and gathered his courage.

"Excuse me," he began in a small, quavery voice, "um, I, uh, I heard you t-talking about something I kn-now about."

* * *

Sherlock and Lestrade exited their cab quickly. The plan was to speak loudly and slowly so that they could lure the child out of hiding and manage to talk to it. Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and said in a louder-than-normal voice, "It's always sad, finding dead bodies, especially the little girl we found on the shore today."

Lestrade took his cue. "It's too bad we can't figure out who she is."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak more when his fine-tuned, searching ears detected the faintest sound of a child's light tread. He willed himself not to turn around.

"Excuse me," a male, tiny, trembling voice said from behind him, "um, I, uh, I heard you t-talking about something I kn-now about."

Sherlock turned very slowly. His blue-grey eyes fell upon a small, malnourished, dirty child in a jacket, t-shirt, shorts, and rainboots. His clothes had holes in them, his sandy blonde hair was short but a little shaggy, his body was gaunt and pale, and his blue eyes were raw from crying and lack of sleep. There were dirty, bloody bandages wrapped around his fingers and palms, which had to be where the bloodstains on the map came from. Sherlock was certain that if you took off his clothes you would find bruises, lots and lots of bruises.

"Hello, there," Sherlock said gently, trying to remember anything he could have possibly read about how to talk to frightened, abused children. "I'm Sherlock Holmes- but you knew that, didn't you? What's your name?" He tried to make it as not-accusing as possible.

The boy nodded. He couldn't have been older than seven years old. "I'm J-John."

"How did you know Sherlock's name, John?" Lestrade asked in as quiet of a conversational voice as he could manage.

John glanced at him uneasily. After a moment he murmured, "'M not supposed to talk to policemen."

"I'm not a policeman, you can talk to me." Sherlock reassured. "Of course, you knew that, too. What else do you know, John? How do you know these things?"

John wrapped his arms around his painfully thin torso and stared at the ground. "I follow you." He whispered. Sherlock could barely hear him. The consulting detective got down on both knees in front of the boy so that they were almost at the same level.

"John," he asked, skipping directly to the need-to-know, "who was the girl you led us to?"

John's eyes met Sherlock's, and Sherlock was taken aback by the amount of pain in that young gaze. "Harry," he choked out, and his hands gripped the bottom of his jacket and he started to cry.

Sherlock was at a loss. He extended his arms slowly, slightly, so as not to scare the boy. John leaned in and Sherlock instinctively scooped him up in his arms and covered him with the front of his coat, cradling the boy close to him. He wasn't sure why he did it. He felt a little bit awkward, but it seemed like the right thing to do, since John's tiny fists gripped Sherlock's shirt and he buried his face in Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, at a loss for what to do next. The self-diagnosed high functioning sociopath was comforting a crying child and was absolutely clueless about how to proceed from there. It was almost heartwarming. Lestrade tried to cover his smile with his hand, but Sherlock noticed, of course, and mouthed "shut up" at Lestrade while glaring at him. It only made Lestrade's smile bigger. Lestrade cocked his head towards the door to Sherlock's flat and Sherlock nodded. He took slow, quiet steps towards the door so as not to alarm John. John himself seemed rather oblivious to Sherlock's movements. Lestrade mouthed "Where's the key?" at Sherlock and Sherlock mouthed back, "In my pocket."

Carefully, oh-so carefully, Lestrade searched Sherlock's pockets until he found the keys. He unlocked the door as quietly as he could and led the consulting detective and the mysterious boy inside. Sherlock slowly went up the stairs as Lestrade moved to Mrs. Hudson's rooms and knocked on her door. John's sobs were quieting now, so they were almost inaudible. Almost.

"Oh? What is it, detective inspector? Is that- is that a child I hear upstairs?" Mrs. Hudson asked with concern when she opened her door.

Lestrade gave her a quick smile. "We've got a rather young guest who's seen some...unpleasant things recently. Apologies in advance for any disturbance we cause you. We just need to ask him a few questions."

Mrs. Hudson blinked in surprise. "Okay," she said after a moment. "I'll bring some biscuits up right away, but just this once, dear, I'm not Sherlock's housekeeper."

Lestrade stopped her before she could shut her door. "The kid's a bit...starved, so if you could bring up anything bland that wouldn't upset his stomach, too, I'd appreciate it."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"And tea would be lovely!" He called over his shoulder as he walked away.

"Just this once, dear!"

Lestrade walked up the stairs, trying not to stomp like he usually did. The door was ajar. He walked in confidently but stopped right in his tracks at the sight of Sherlock sitting in his armchair with the boy on his lap. He was murmuring to him softly.

"...so you don't have to be afraid of her. She's just the landlady." Sherlock was saying. He looked up. "Ah, Lestrade, nice of you to join us." Sherlock's voice was now almost at its normally loud, baritone level, but just a little lower.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Yes, well," but he was at a loss for words. The sight of Sherlock with the child on his lap was so natural it was almost...unnatural.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was quite comfortable with John curled up on his lap. When John had realized that he was somewhere strange, he looked around with wide eyes and clutched at Sherlock fearfully. Sherlock had attempted to soothe him. "There, now, look, this is where guests come in to sit and where I am fond of relaxing. That down there is my violin case. Do you know what a violin is? No? I'll show you later. It makes music, John, you'll like it." He had continued to just let random observations about the room flow out of his mouth as he sat down with John, who remained on his lap. By the time he had started to explain Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade had come up the stairs, and here they were now.

Sherlock still hadn't had the chance to take off his coat. "John," he said, "I'm going to take my coat off. Will you be alright sitting on the seat by yourself? I won't be but a few meters away- Look, the coat hanger is attached to the back of the door. I won't even leave the room."

John had paled a little more (a remarkable feat) and he looked a little nervous, but he nodded. Sherlock picked him up, stood, placed John back on the armchair, took off his coat, crossed the room and hung it up, came back, and scooped John up and sat down with the boy on his lap again. "See," he said, "that wasn't so hard."

"Now, John, we do have a few questions for you." Lestrade said gently. John jumped a little at Lestrade's voice but did not leave Sherlock's lap, which Sherlock considered to be an accomplishment.

"Okay," John murmured, just as Mrs. Hudson peeked her head in.

"Yoo-hoo!" Her smile was wide. "I brought tea, biscuits, and some toast for the little one. Where is he, Sherlock dear?" She stepped into the room with a large tray that Lestrade rose to help her with. Mrs. Hudson's eyes locked onto John while Lestrade put the tray down on a small wooden table moved between the two armchairs. "Oh my!" Mrs. Hudson gasped, taking in the sight of dirty, tiny John, who probably needed fresh bandages for his hands. "Sherlock, you need to get him to the hospital! Oh, you poor boy," Mrs. Hudson fretted, walking closer. John shrank back in fear from her outstretched hand when she reached to smooth his hair.

"It's just Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock reassured John upon seeing Mrs. Hudson's injured and sad expression. "She brought toast, see? Don't be afraid of her."

John perked up at the mention of toast, but stayed silent.

"Want me to get it for you?" Mrs. Hudson asked gently, gesturing to the tray that Lestrade was taking biscuits from.

John shook his head quickly. "No, thank you, ma'am, I can get it," he said quietly. Everything John did was quiet. He hopped off of Sherlock's lap and darted over to the tray. He took the plate with the toast on it and walked slower back to Sherlock, who took his plate from him so he could climb back up onto the chair. John took the plate back and hesitantly picked up the toast.

"Go on, dear," Mrs. Hudson encouraged. John took a small bite and his eyes widened in astonishment.

"It's just as good as Harry's toast," he murmured in awe, and he ate the rest very quickly. Mrs. Hudson smiled and flitted around for a bit, mildly chiding Sherlock for his untidiness, and then left on some errand. Sherlock guessed that she was probably going to buy a child's picture book or two to keep John occupied, though that was unnecessary. Surely the boy would leave within the hour.

Where could John go, though?

Lestrade was on a similar wavelength. "John," he said, "will you tell us where you live?"

John looked up at Sherlock. "Do you still have the map?"

"It's in my coat pocket. Lestrade, fetch it for me." Sherlock gestured to his coat. Lestrade was tempted to gesture back at him (more rudely, of course) but decided that showing any hostility towards the person that John was most comfortable with wouldn't be a good idea. He merely sighed and got up to fetch the map. He started to hand it to John, but John flinched when Lestrade's hand came near, so Lestrade handed it to Sherlock instead. Sherlock held the map out so he and John could see it.

John traced his finger up the red line on the map until he reached the part where the line split- it went through a flat and around it. The line met up again past the flat. "I live here."

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth, looking at streets and roads and doors that only he could see. Lestrade waited with his hands on his hips.

"Oh." Sherlock breathed.

"Well?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"John lives at the flat that you wouldn't let us walk through- The one where you spoke of how the tenant would think we're insane if we went inside."

"Oh." Lestrade said. "I remember that one."

John looked curious but did not speak. Sherlock and Lestrade shared a glance and unanimously decided to ask more questions.

"John, tell me about how the girl died." Sherlock said. Lestrade wanted to slap him for his lack of tact.

John swallowed nervously. "I can't- I'll get in trouble. Father will be mad."

"Well, he's not here now, is he?" Lestrade commented as Sherlock's mind raced. John said that his father would get mad- either his father killed the girl, or one of his father's associates did, or something of that nature.

John frowned in confusion. "That doesn't mean anything. Just because he's not here now doesn't mean he won't be later."

Both men were frustrated by John's intelligent words. They had been hoping that he would accept their logic and tell them what had happened. Sherlock spoke next. "I will not let him harm you, John." Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but John seemed to accept it, because he began to speak.

"Harry and I were drawing with crayons and I fell asleep. I woke up and Harry was screaming and I was trying to open the door but it was locked and I heard him hitting her and yelling and- and-" The words seemed to tumble out of his mouth until he choked up and put his hands over his face, trying not to cry. Sherlock pulled him closer and wrapped his arms around the trembling boy. Again, he wasn't quite sure why he did it, but it seemed to help John, who took a shaky breath and continued. "Then he stopped and he walked out the back door with her and I watched from the window as he put her into a bag. I watched him walk away and I opened the window and followed him all the way to the big river. I ran away after that and slept next to Sherlock's rubbish bins."

Sherlock blinked. John had been so close and he hadn't even known. Lestrade also looked astonished.

"I woke up when I heard you yelling for a cab, and I picked a burger out of the trash near a food place and then I went to the river again. I'm not sure why. It just felt-" he paused. "I just felt like I should go there. So I went and I saw the bag washed up on the shore. I was...I was curious about what was in the bag. I unzipped it a little and- and-" Again, he could not continue. Tears ran down his cheeks.

"Sherlock, have you got any tissues?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded in the direction of the kitchen, which was filled with beakers, test tubes, what may or may not have been a bag of thumbs (Lestrade tossed those into the fridge), and other scientific things. There was indeed a box of tissues on the counter next to the sink. Lestrade brought those back and handed a tissue to Sherlock, who handed it to John. The boy murmured a quiet thank you and blew his nose. This seemed to help him compose himself.

"After that," he murmured, "I sat outside a store for a while. I heard a girl talking to her mummy and it inspi-insp-" He frowned in concentration. "_Inspired_ me to draw a map. That way Harry would be found but I wouldn't have to see her like that again. Is that wrong? Is it wrong to not want to see her like that?" John looked up at Sherlock anxiously.

"Of course not," Sherlock said with a tiny bit of bewilderment. "People never like seeing their loved ones' corp-" a sharp look from Lestrade caught his attention- "er, bodies. They don't like seeing loved ones' bodies after death."

"Okay." John said, looking a little relieved. "So I went back to flat hoping that Father wouldn't be there. He wasn't, so I taped up Harry and mines drawings and drew a map and got some food out of the fridge. See, look!" John pulled two crumpled pieces of paper, a bag of carrots, and a bag of peanuts out of his pockets and held them up for both men to see.

"...Good job," Lestrade said finally, because it sounded like the right thing to say. John beamed at him, which itself was a reward. He put the carrots and peanuts back in his pockets, but kept the pieces of paper in his hands.

"After I drew the map, I waited near Sherlock's flat for a while until Sherlock went into his mind like he does sometimes. I knew he wouldn't notice me then, so I ran up and slipped it in his pocket."

"That's enough, John," Sherlock said, steepling his hands under his chin. John obediently shut up.

Lestrade spoke up while Sherlock searched through his brain for any previous sighting of this clever little boy he had overlooked. "How long have you been following Sherlock?"

John frowned in concentration as he tried to remember. "'M not sure. A while." He noticed Lestrade's grim expression and shrank back closer to Sherlock. "Am I in trouble?"

"No," Sherlock interjected thoughtfully, "no, you've been very helpful, John. Why don't you go sit at the table and have some carrots? I'll clear a spot for you." Sherlock's goals were to get some food in John and to speak to Lestrade alone. John got off his lap and Sherlock moved some scientific instruments off of the table. He pulled out a chair and John climbed onto it and began to eat from his bag of carrots. "I'll be over here." Sherlock gestured to where Lestrade was sitting. John nodded.

Lestrade watched Sherlock return to his seat. "He left those drawings in your chair. I've got 'em here- Look, Sherlock, this one looks like you."

Sherlock spared a glance at the drawing. True, one figure had curly dark squiggles for hair, a blue thing around its neck, and what looked like a long coat. "Merely a child's scribbles, nothing more." Sherlock said flippantly, though he felt some odd emotion in his chest.

"This one ain't so bad, either," Lestrade remarked, showing Sherlock a picture of a scantily clad swimsuit model. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Lestrade put the drawings down next to the biscuits.

"So, we've got a man who's committed murder and child abuse somewhere out there, a dead body in a morgue, and a little boy who'll end up dead on the streets if we turn him loose." Sherlock said in a hushed voice.

"We've got to get him fed and vaccinated, that's for sure," Lestrade said. "He'll need check-ups and we'll have to find a boys' home to put him in and possibly a therapist for him as well. I know one or two who might be good."

"That's probably for the best," Sherlock agreed, though he wasn't sure why he felt a twinge of sadness. He shoved the feeling down mercilessly. He glanced at John, who was happily trying to build a square house out of carrots by stacking them. Sherlock's gaze returned to Lestrade. He opened his mouth to speak when-

_crash!_

Lestrade and Sherlock's heads swiveled towards John, who stared back of them in petrified terror. He'd accidentally knocked a beaker over (empty, thank goodness) and it had fallen to the floor and shattered.

"John," Sherlock began with exasperation, but his words died in his throat as John let out a squeak of terror and hurried to the floor, bandaged hands scrambling to pick up the bits and pieces of sharp glass. Sherlock lunged urgently from his seat and dashed towards the kitchen. John noticed and immediately put his hands up over his head defensively. Sherlock ignored him and grabbed a towel from a rack, then knelt down on the floor next to the trembling boy.

"Sorry," John whispered, "sorry. Sorry."

Sherlock used the towel to brush the shards away from John and into a pile. He clucked his tongue. "Be more careful, John, you could hurt yourself picking up broken glass with your bare hands. Are you alright?"

John blinked in surprise. "You're not mad?"

"I'd prefer that you not break my beakers again, but I'm not going to _hit_ you." Sherlock put the pile of shards in the rubbish can and then knelt back down next to John once more. "Is that how you hurt your hands the first time? Picking up shards of glass?"

John nodded, looking ashamed, as if he'd killed someone's puppy on accident. "I tripped and dropped a plate. Father kicked me and made me clean up."

Rage clouded Sherlock's mind for a moment, but he tucked it aside for later. "Speaking of which, lets get _you_ cleaned up. Those bandages are starting to smell." He scooped John up. It was too easy; the boy was unhealthily light.

"Have you got anything for that?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock walked by him towards the bathroom.

"I have enough painkillers to kill an elephant. Of _course_ I have bandages." Sherlock said snappily. Lestrade rolled his eyes behind his back.

Sherlock made John shower first. He showed John how to work the shower and told him which tubes were for shampoo, conditioner, and body wash, and then he waited outside the bathroom until John had towled dry and put on Sherlock's large bathrobe. Sherlock came in and helped him tie the thing tightly enough around his waist so that it wouldn't slip off. The bottom was way too long and the sleeves were too big for his hands, but it covered John's body and that was all Sherlock was going for.

It was quiet as Sherlock sat with John in the bathroom and changed his bandages. John seemed as if he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Do you have a question?" Sherlock asked finally.

John paused before asking. "Are you going to send me home?"

"No, don't be silly, of course not." Sherlock said as he finished wrapping. He did not elaborate further. "Wait here, I'll fetch something for you to wear for now." Sherlock strode to his bedroom and looked through boxes of clothes he'd never worn and chose a beige jumper his mummy had bought him for his birthday a year or two ago. It was too small for him, but it would be large on John, and it was probably comfortable enough for the boy. Sherlock also rummaged around through his pants drawer and decided that he'd just have to call Mrs. Hudson and ask her to pick up some child boxers or something.

He called her while John changed into the jumper. Turned out that she'd had the foresight to purchase what Sherlock asked for and was already at the door to 221 when he called. Sherlock carried John downstairs and met her at the door.

"Why, don't you look precious," Mrs. Hudson cooed at John, who was even more adorable to her now that he was clean. It did hurt her so to see how the large jumper hung loose on his tiny, underfed, weak bones, and she was determined to fix that. She handed Sherlock the plastic bag with John's pants, trousers, and t-shirt in it (she'd guessed the sizes) and carried the groceries herself. Lestrade watched with amusement as Sherlock came up the stairs to the room where he sat drinking tea and munching biscuits. He only rose to help Mrs. Hudson with the groceries.

"Here, John, go put these on." Sherlock said as he handed John the plastic bag with clothes in it and shoved a biscuit in his mouth.

John stared into the bag with wide eyes. "These are mine?"

"Yes, yes, go." Sherlock waved a hand impatiently and John quickly trotted off to the bathroom to change. As an afterthought, he shouted, "Don't bother putting on the trousers unless you prefer to sleep with trousers on!"

Lestrade finished helping Mrs. Hudson unload and put away groceries and walked with her to stand beside Sherlock. "You've got a great housekeeper," he said wistfully.

"Landlady," Sherlock corrected.

"I bought lots of bland foods for the youngster so he can put some meat on those scrawny little bones, and I have a picture book or two for him in this bag." Mrs. Hudson handed Sherlock another plastic bag. "Make sure he knows his letters and numbers, dear. I'd hate for him to have to start his first year of school while being two or three years older than anyone else. If he knows enough, they might let him in the grade he should be in at his age."

Sherlock flipped through a picture book about three kittens being put to bed. "They consider this literature?" He muttered scornfully.

"I also bought a book of Grimm's fairytales because I know you like that sort of more serious stuff, Sherlock, and if it gets you reading to John, it's good."

Sherlock reached in the bag for Grimm's fairytales. He was not disappointed- It was a lovely edition.

Lestrade's brows furrowed. "John isn't going to _live_ here, Mrs. Hudson, he's going to a boys' home."

"That is still up in the air," Sherlock said absentmindedly as he flipped through the fairytales.

"_What_?!" Lestrade spluttered.

"Sherlock," John murmured shyly, and everyone jolted. No one had heard or noticed the boy approach.

Sherlock recovered first. "What?"

"Thank you for jumper and clothes. They'll definitely keep the wind out tonight." He beamed up at the tall detective.

"You won't need to keep the wind out, John." Sherlock told him. "You're staying here."

"He is?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

Sherlock stared back just as incredulously. "Look out a window, Lestrade, it's black as pitch out there. There's a spare room. John'll be fine. Won't you, John?"

John looked happier than a little kid at Christmas. "Yes, I will, I will!" He promised joyfully.

"See? It's all fine. Now, off you pop, Detective Inspector. The gardener should be leaving your wife's bed right about now." Sherlock shoved another biscuit in his mouth.

Lestrade sighed, but didn't argue. "Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson. Goodnight, John. Sherlock- text me tomorrow." He dipped his head politely and walked out the door.

After a pause, the landlady spoke up. "Well, I'll leave you to it, Sherlock. Don't forget to eat breakfast tomorrow. Goodnight, boys." Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock gave her a kiss on the cheek. John gave her a hesitant smile, which she gladly returned, and then she was gone.

"I'll show you the bedroom you'll stay in." Sherlock said, and he began walking away and up another set of stairs. John trotted along beside him. The bed was bigger than any bed John had ever seen, an assumption made by Sherlock that was supported by John's wide eyes and surprised expression. Sherlock pulled the covers back and scooped John up and plopped him on the bed. John lay down, touching the pillow gently as if checking to see if it was real. Sherlock pulled the blankets over the boy and tucked him in. "I'll be downstairs. Yell if you need anything." He turned to go.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," came a whisper from the bed.

Sherlock halted in the doorway. "Goodnight," he replied after recovering from his surprise. He left the door open so a sliver of light shone into the room.

* * *

To John, everything had happened so fast, and this new bed and these new clothes seemed like something unreal. He was afraid to sleep, afraid that he'd wake up and he'd be at Father's flat again.

He couldn't keep his eyes open forever, though, and soon he was fast asleep.


	5. We All Fall Down

_After you read this chapter, __**please**__ please please __**vote in the poll in my bio**__. It is__** very important**__ to this story's plot. Thank you._

* * *

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace.

He was in his blue dressing gown, grey sweatpants, and a black t-shirt that just so happened to be inside out. Sunlight streamed through the windows, but not that much sunlight, so it was early in the morning, but no earlier than six o'clock. John was curled up in one of the armchairs near the mantle, while Sherlock himself was lying on the couch. John seemed to have put his trousers on, but he was still wearing the large jumper Sherlock had given him. He was sleeping, tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically. Sherlock rose from the sofa and padded quietly to where he'd put John's old clothes after washing them (he'd washed them after the boy had gone to bed.) He folded them up and walked over to where John was sleeping. Sherlock put them down on the arm of the chair and began to walk away, but John woke with a shaky gasp, looking panicked and scared.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock said, "it's only me. Why aren't you in the bedroom?"

John swallowed. "I...I woke up, and I, um, I came out here, and you were deep in your head again, so I just kind of, um..." he trailed off.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering over the nervous child. Obviously he was plagued with nightmares. He had sought comfort- the only human nearby was Sherlock, so he chose to sleep closer to him. He now feared a scolding. "What time is it?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno."

"Hmm." Sherlock walked to the fridge. "Hungry?"

There was a pause. "Yes," John admitted sheepishly.

Opening the fridge revealed a severed head and a bag of bloody thumbs, along with a jar of peanut butter and some left-over Chinese. Sherlock quickly decided to go to Angelo's. "Put your clothes on, John, we're going out to eat." As an afterthought, he added, "After that we'll go to a doctor. We've got to get your hands checked out and get your vaccinations."

John scrambled off of the chair. "What's a vacci- vac- vas'nation?" He stuttered, struggling with the large word.

"A vaccination," Sherlock explained while passing John his clean clothes, "is when a substance that stimulates antibodies against certain diseases is put into your body via a needle."

John blinked. "...Okay."

Sherlock sensed his confusion, sighed, and simplified it. "A doctor is going to poke you with a needle and then you won't be able to get certain sicknesses."

"Oh." John said, sounding much more comprehensive of the information. "Will it hurt?"

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "You're going to get poked with a _needle_, of course it will hurt."

John looked a little frightened.

Sherlock felt a vague sense of shame for scaring John. He had no problems with scaring ordinary children because they were usually whiny and stupid and annoying and boring, but John was different. He was quiet and did what he was told and he was such an innocent, kind boy. He was traumatized and abused, and he didn't deserve more fear.

Sherlock brushed his feelings away because he was Sherlock Holmes: he wasn't supposed to feel things.

Nevertheless, his voice was a bit kinder the next time he spoke. "We'll bring a book for you to read in the waiting room. I'll get you something sweet after your shots and buy you some more clothes. We'll need to speak to Lestrade so he can contact social services and let them know I haven't kidnapped you. Hurry and put your clothes on, we haven't got all day."

John rushed off to change. Sherlock went to his bedroom and put a clean blue button-up shirt on, along with black trousers, black socks, and his shoes. John was sitting patiently at the kitchen by the time Sherlock emerged. John's old shorts, shirt, and jacket were clean, and so was he. His sandy-blonde hair was mussed up with bed-head, though, so Sherlock returned to the bathroom and retrieved a comb from a drawer.

"Comb your hair while I put my coat on," Sherlock told him. John did so. Sherlock put on his dark coat, looped his favorite blue scarf around his neck, pulled his black gloves on, and put his wallet, phone, and Grimm's fairy tales in his large pockets. "Ready, John?"

John nodded and hopped down from his chair. "Um...where should I put this?" He asked hesitantly, staring down at the comb in his bandaged hands.

"Leave it on the table."

John placed the comb on the table and followed Sherlock down the stairs. "We're going out, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock yelled.

"Both of you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He opened the front door and walked out into the brisk air. He stood on the steps and took out his phone. "Angelo," he said when the restaurant owner picked up, "I'd like to make a reservation. When will the front window booth be open?"

"Eh, it's open now, if you'd like to stop by right away." Angelo said on the other end of the line.

"If you could hold it for us, that would be great. We'll be over in a few minutes." Sherlock said.

"'Us?'"

"Yes, I said 'us.'"

There was a pause. "Are you bringing a date?" Angelo asked, trying hard to cover his eagerness.

"What? No! No, he's not my- It's a child. And no, I didn't kidnap him. It's a long story." Sherlock said with a bit of frustration. Mrs. Hudson and Angelo were constantly checking to see if he'd found a romantic partner yet, and it was annoying.

"I would like to hear that story sometime, if you don't mind." Angelo said, sounding somewhat disappointed and somewhat pleased.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, yes, alright. Just reserve the table, please?"

"Anything for you. You want me to prep your usual or are you skipping today?"

Sherlock considered it. He wasn't really on a case, and Mrs. Hudson would probably want him to set a good example for John. "The usual. We'll be there soon."

"Alright." Angelo hung up.

Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and turned to the blonde boy, who had been waiting patiently. "Now, John, stay with me. Do not wander off or follow anyone: not a stranger, not your father if you see him, no one."

"Okay." John nodded. He had turned a shade paler at the mention of his father. His hands twitched.

Sherlock glanced down at the boy's hands. John would be hard to find in a crowd if the two were separated. An idea came to him, and Sherlock reassured himself it was merely for the purpose of speed and so that he wouldn't lose a child, nothing more. He reached down, plucked John up, and placed the tiny boy on his shoulders. John squeaked and grabbed at his hair.

"Hold on, and _don't cover my eyes_. This is just so I don't lose you." Sherlock said as he began to stride down the street. He felt slightly self-conscious when he noticed people's stares, but it was replaced with a pleased sort of feeling when John whispered in awe, "I can see everything from up here."

They made quite a sight as Sherlock walked through London. Sherlock had planned on getting a taxi but changed his mind, instead pointing out different buildings and places to John as they went along.

"Look, John," he'd say with an outstretched arm, and John's head would swivel towards whatever it was Sherlock was pointing at.

John, in turn, would point something out every once and a while, but only verbally. Both of his tiny hands never left their places clutching Sherlock's curly hair. Anything John mentioned was always something that Sherlock already knew existed, but Sherlock didn't tell John that. John was enjoying his new high vantage point immensely. Have you ever heard someone speak and you could just sort of tell by their tone of voice that they were smiling? Sherlock couldn't see John's face, but it sounded like he was grinning with delight.

When they were a block away from Angelo's, though, Sherlock put John back down. John looked very disappointed, but he didn't complain, he merely took Sherlock's hand in his and continued walking with him. The consulting detective was surprised at his actions but did not comment, convincing himself he only allowed it because of the convenience of not losing John. It certainly wasn't out of any parental feelings, of course not. Never.

Sherlock opened the door to Angelo's and strode inside. The rotund man noticed their entrance and beamed as Sherlock sat down at the booth and John sat across from him. Angelo walked over and put a menu in front of John. "Sherlock, my man, good to see you. Anything you want, free, for you and for the kid. On the house." His gaze fixated on the little boy. "This man got me off a m-" Angelo began to explain, but he noticed that the frail blonde child was a little pale with fear and Sherlock had sent him a warning look. Gently, he said, "I'll get a kiddie menu and some crayons for the table. What's your name, then?"

The boy's eyes flickered to Sherlock, who nodded at him. "I'm John," he managed to say, and Angelo smiled encouragingly.

"Alright then, John, do you want the superheroes menu or the dinosaurs menu?" Each child menu had a large picture to color and a few puzzles to solve. The two Angelo had in stock had superheroes and dinosaurs.

John brightened. "Superheroes!" He said enthusiastically. Angelo immediately departed to get John's menu and crayons and Sherlock's lasagna he'd pre-ordered.

"Angelo isn't a bad man." Sherlock commented as John stared out the window.

John blinked. "Sorry. I just- I get a bit..."

"Nervous?" Sherlock supplied.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"I would prefer if you said 'yes' instead of 'yeah,' John." Sherlock said in a slightly stern voice.

"Okay. I meant, yes, I do get nervous." John said quickly.

"Completely understandable." Sherlock said. "You've come from a dark background and you're very young, so strangers are bound to scare you. Ah, Angelo, that was quick."

Angelo hurried over and placed Sherlock's bowl in front of him. The steaming lasagna looked delicious, and the smell alone made John's mouth water. Angelo put John's crayons and menu on the table and smiled at them both. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Water will be fine, thank you." Sherlock said absentmindedly, watching as John said he'd have the same. John looked at the paper menu and at the decorations and seats and everything in awe. He'd never been in a restaurant before.

"Decide what you want, John. We'll have to eat quickly so I can get you to see a doctor to treat your hands." And undernourished body and lack of vaccinations, Sherlock added to the sentence in his head. He wondered if he could afford it.

"Can I- can I have the same thing you're having?" John asked tentatively.

"Try some and see if you like it first, we don't want to waste money." Sherlock cut some and speared it with a fork, holding it out for John to try. John grasped the fork with both hands and took a big bite, chewing and swallowing the lasagna with a look of surprise and happiness on his face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I guess you'd like some, then."

"It's good," John said with simple, childlike wonder. He gave Sherlock his fork back and then opened the package of crayons. There was a black, a blue, and a yellow. John thought they were amazing. "They're new," he said in astonishment.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "They are. Angelo couldn't just bring you used, broken crayons, now could he?" Sherlock's mouth flattened as an unpleasant memory of mean children breaking colored pencils flickered through his mind. He deleted it.

"Do you want what he has, then?" Angelo asked. He had stuck around to see if John made a decision quickly.

"Yeah- Er, yes, please." John corrected himself. Angelo departed to get the food ready.

John happily started coloring the superheroes. He wasn't very good at coloring in the lines, and for some reason all of the male heroes had dark hair and dark clothes. The females were all blonde with green clothes (a mix of the yellow and blue). Sherlock ate while he colored.

"Your superheroes look really good," Angelo fibbed when he placed John's food in front of him a short while later.

"It's Sherlock and Harry!" John told him.

"Are they heroes?" Angelo asked politely, despite not knowing who Harry was.

"Yep!" John grinned. Sherlock blinked in surprise. He supposed it made sense that the two people John would choose to be superheroes were the people who'd shown him kindness, but Sherlock still felt a kind of warm glow at being called a hero.

Angelo left the two to their meal. John ate like the starved child that he was would eat: quickly. Sherlock took his time. He wasn't that hungry. John only managed to finish half of his meal. "I can't eat any more," he said sheepishly. Sherlock put his fork down.

"Same," the consulting detective replied. He'd finished about three fourths of his. "Angelo, we've got to run. Doctor's appointment." He called out.

"Come back again sometime!" Angelo commanded. Sherlock gave him a smile, took John by the hand, and walked out the door.

* * *

John followed Sherlock happily. His belly was full, his clothes were clean, _he_ was clean, he'd met another friendly person, Sherlock was nice, and the air was refreshing. He was content.

"Now, to find a doctor. Have you ever been to see a doctor before?" Sherlock asked.

John frowned in concentration as he tried to remember. "I dunno," he said, because he was only seven, and even though he had a good memory for a seven year old, he wasn't perfect, and he couldn't recall ever going to see a doctor.

"Oh, hell, what now?" Sherlock muttered, snapping John out of his memories and into the present. John stood next to Sherlock as a sleek black car pulled up right in front of them and slowed to a stop. A man stepped out and opened the back door to the car.

"Apologies, Mr. Holmes, but you'll have to come with us now." The man said in monotone. He didn't really sound very sorry.

"Why?" Sherlock said snidely. "I've got somewhere to be."

"Get in the car, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock huffed in irritated defeat and turned to John. "You know the way back to the flat from here?"

"He has to come as well." The man interrupted, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Fine," he said slowly after a moment. "Get in, John, I'll be right behind."

John eyed the black car dubiously. Drive away with strangers? Sherlock seemed to know them, but he didn't like them at all. John didn't want to go with people Sherlock didn't like. Then again, Sherlock was coming, too. Sherlock would keep him safe.

That steeled John's resolve. _Sherlock would keep him safe_. John got in the car and sat down in the middle seat, since there was a woman texting on a phone in the farthest seat. Sherlock slid in after him and the man shut the door and then say up front next to the driver. No one said anything as they pulled away.

A few minutes in, John turned to the woman next to him and hesitantly asked, "What's your name?"

"Ah..." She paused, not looking up from her phone. "Anthea."

John frowned. The pause had made it seem like she had been thinking about what to say. "S'that your real name?"

"No." She admitted.

"I'm John," John said, introducing himself.

"Hello, John." She said.

John let the quiet settle back over the car for a few more minutes. The only sounds were Not-Anthea's fingers pressing her phone keys. Maybe, John thought, maybe since she wouldn't say her real name, that meant that she's a spy. He asked, "Would it do any good to ask where we're going?"

At this she did glance down from her phone to smile at him with a bit of pity. "Not at all."

No one spoke for the rest of the drive.

The car finally stopped at an empty factory- Work had been cancelled for the day or the place had recently gone out of business and hadn't had time to fall into disrepair or something of the sort. John looked at the large building in awe.

"His choice of location is wonderful," Sherlock said sarcastically after he, John, and Not-Anthea got out of the car and it drove away.

"Who?" John asked, but Sherlock didn't answer, instead just grasping John's hand and leading him along as they followed Not-Anthea into the factory. Her high heels made an interesting noise on the pavement and John studied the cracked floor as they walked. He wondered who they were going to meet. Not-Anthea didn't look up from her phone. She seemed to know exactly where to go, turning this way and that and never tripping, something John thought was pretty cool. Not-Anthea stopped at a large door.

"Through there," she said, and then she started walking back the way she came. John watched her go.

"She's not coming with us?" He asked.

"No, she's not." Sherlock told him. He opened the door and strode inside with John right next to him. The room was large and dark. They rounded one corner and John blinked in astonishment when he saw the tall man twirling a dark umbrella next to a folding table with three chairs by it. The man, slightly large around the middle, balding, and very well dressed, looked up as they approached and stopped twirling his umbrella.

"Sherlock." The man smiled, but it was sour and insincere, and his voice was like ice. John decided he'd call him the Iceman. "How..._good_ to see you."

Sherlock glowered. "What do you want?"

"World peace," the Iceman quipped, and Sherlock snorted.

"Please. World peace would put you out of a job. He's practically the British government." This last bit was meant for John's ears and muttered under Sherlock's breath.

The Iceman's fake smile turned into a very real scowl. "You've not been very well behaved lately. How'd you manage to kidnap a child, brother? Honestly. I let you out of my sight for a day..."

"Brother?" John piped up in surprise.

"Yes, brother. This my brother, Mycroft." Sherlock explained. John erased the term "Iceman" from his mind and replaced it with "Mycroft Holmes," because it made sense for brothers to have the same last name.

John frowned in confusion. "So you're not...enemies?" They hadn't seemed very friendly towards each other.

Mycroft's gaze flicked to John. "Oh, I'm sure Sherlock considers me to be his archenemy. But we're not here to discuss our animosity. We're here to discuss _you_."

"Me?" John repeated. "But I'm not important. I'm just John."

Mycroft didn't confirm or deny John's lack of importance. He merely explained, "Sherlock isn't in legal custody of you yet, so he could go to jail for having kept you in his flat."

"John's father is a murderer!" Sherlock blurted in rage.

"You haven't proved it yet, Sherlock, and he hasn't been convicted in court. He is still technically John's legal guardian. The boy would normally be living with him until someone brought up charges against him." Mycroft said.

Johns heart stopped briefly and he ceased breathing, absolutely terrified now. It was illegal for him to be in Sherlock's flat, so this man was going to make him go back to Father. He couldn't go back, he wouldn't he wouldn't he wouldn't he wouldn't he

"Breathe, John, I need you to breath. You're going to be fine." Sherlock said urgently, and John realized that Sherlock was kneeling down in front of him and even Mycroft looked slightly concerned. John took a shuddery, gasping breath. Sherlock relaxed with relief. "You were having a panic attack, John." He explained.

"I'm not sending you back to your father." Mycroft said after a moment where Sherlock helped John take deep breaths. "As soon as you leave, Sherlock will have Lestrade arrest the murderer and we'll take the case to court and have it settled quickly. Then you'll go to a boy's ho-"

"Thank you, Mycroft, but we've got to head out and get John to see a doctor." Sherlock interrupted quickly, looking impatient and agitated.

Mycroft blinked. "A doctor? I could get a doctor for you. Let me guess: you need a diet plan for John and to get his hands treated and get him his vaccinations?" He tapped his umbrella on the floor.

"Yes." Sherlock said, secretly glad he wouldn't have to pay for the appointment now.

"I'll accompany you back to your flat and call my personal doctor there. He knows how to keep his mouth shut." Mycroft said, pulling out his phone and sending a text.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered. John guessed he didn't want to spend time with Mycroft Holmes. Soon enough they were all in a black car again (Mycroft sat where Not-Anthea sat before since Not-Anthea wasn't there) and they were headed to Sherlock's flat. Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the door when they arrived and ushered them inside, promising tea and biscuits "just this once." She smiled at John, who happily smiled back. He liked it when people were nice. Mycroft took the seat where Lestrade sat last night (had it only been last night? It seemed like forever ago) while Sherlock hung up his coat.

"John, go to your room and read for a bit." Sherlock dug into his coat pocket and handed John the Grimm's tales story. John held the book in both hands and stared at it. "Do you know your letters?"

"Some," John admitted. Harry could read and liked to brag about how she knew which letters made which sounds. She'd draw them out for John and demonstrate what they sounded like.

"Go on, then." Sherlock flapped a hand in a shooing motion and flopped down in his chair. John obediently walked to his room, far out of earshot, innocently not wondering at all what Sherlock and Mycroft would talk about.

* * *

Sherlock waited until he could hear the faintest sound of John struggling to read aloud to himself before speaking to Mycroft. "I don't want to put him in a boy's home, Mycroft."

Mycroft was speechless for a moment. "Sherlock-"

"Not yet, anyway." Sherlock added hastily. "I just need more time. He's still in danger. His father knows that the boy has fled. He knows that John probably knows what he's done. He'll stop at nothing to hunt him down and leave no witnesses."

"Is that the excuse you've come up with?" Mycroft asked, half scathingly and half pityingly.

"What?" Sherlock said incredulously, but his heart sank, because Mycroft seemed to be right for once.

"You have parental feelings for this 'John.' You're fascinated, you want to play some more. But what happens, Sherlock, when you get bored? What happens when you lose interest and you're stuck with a broken hearted, miserable child you don't want to deal with and I havd to file the paperwork and ship him somewhere? I hate having to pick of your messes. Being a parent is a life-long job. You can't just abandon it when you're sick of it like you sometimes do to your various experiments. He's a human being, Sherlock, a child with needs. He must have an education, regular meals, entertainment, nurturing, and guidance. Can you do all that Sherlock? Can you raise a child? Do you really want to?" Mycroft, the pompous bastard, stared at Sherlock with condescending eyes.

Sherlock desperately tried to think of something to say. He managed a scoff and a, "As if you'd know. You don't have any children." A low blow, considering Mycroft's wife died giving birth to a child that perished before it could leave the hospital.

"I practically raised you, didn't I?" Mycroft's murmured, adjusting his grip on his precious umbrella and forming a sad, tight-lipped smile.

Sherlock's own lips formed a thin, hardened line as he turned Mycroft's words over and over again in his mind. "I won't grow bored of him," Sherlock said, seventy-six percent believing it.

Mycroft eyed the jackknife on the mantle with eyes now bored, emotions returned to the lockbox he called a heart. "I'll give you a week. Keep in touch." He stood to go, then halted, recalling his earlier promise. "Ah, yes, that's right, the doctor. Just a moment, I'll make the call on my way out. Farewell, Sherlock." Mycroft stepped rapidly down the stairs, telling the approaching Mrs. Hudson to bring the tea up even though he was leaving because a medical specialist would be paying his little brother a visit soon.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and set the tea tray down on a small table. "How are you doing, dearie? Need any help with anything?"

"No, thank you," Sherlock said absentmindedly. He could still faintly hear John stumbling over sounds and words in his room. Mycroft's words echoed through his mind. Did he want to raise John long term? Could he handle a growing boy? Would he get bored and end up abandoning the poor child?

Sherlock was probably in his mind palace going over everything he knew about the responsibilities of raising children for a quarter of an hour before Mrs. Hudson showed in a widower German doctor with back issues and two cats.

"I am Dr. Wirtz," the large blonde man said, holding out his left hand (dominant. stitches on index finger from cutting it while gutting a fish/chopping vegetables) for Sherlock (whom had risen from his chair) to shake. "A client of mine told me there was a child in need of vaccinations?"

"Yes. I presume the medicines and needles and such are in there." Sherlock gestured to the large briefcase Dr. Wirtz was carrying in his right hand.

"Yes, they are. Where's the patient?"

"Try to be gentle. He's come from a traumatizing and abusive home." Sherlock told the doctor with a scowl. Then he hollered, "John! Dr. Wirtz is here to see you!"

Sherlock heard John's tiny feet thump thump thump against the floorboards as he ran from his room to where Sherlock's voice was coming from. The boy peeked his head in the doorway hesitantly. "H-hi," he murmured when he saw the large doctor.

"Hello, there," Wirtz said kindly, getting down on one knee. "I am Dr. Pete Wirtz. Are you John?" John nodded. "I'm going to give you a few shots, John, and then I'm going to give you a check up. Is that okay?"

With an approving glance from Sherlock, John took a deep breath and then strode over to Dr. Wirtz with a brave expression on his face and only slightly trembling knees. "Okay. I'm ready." He proclaimed in a shaky voice.

John ended up seated in Sherlock's armchair. Wirtz knelt beside him with the needles, preparing the doses John needed. Sherlock hovered with strange anxiousness in the pit of his stomach, which was ridiculous. It was just a shot. John would be fine. Wirtz rolled up John's sleeves and dabbed his shoulders clean with a baby wipe. He positioned the needle. "On the count of five, John. One, two." He stopped abruptly rather soon and plunged the needle in. John bit his lip.

"Almost over, John," Sherlock said, kind of reassuring himself. He hated seeing that sharp pointy thing pierce John's skin for some reason, even though he'd done worse to bodies before and seen worse on bodies.

John didn't make a sound for the next two shots or three shots, and Wirtz praised him heavily and gave him a Twix bar. John stared at it in surprise. Sherlock took the initiative and snatched it from him, unwrapped it, and put it back in John's hands. "Eat," he commanded, and John did, happy about it. After he'd eaten, Wirtz told John he needed to take his shirt, jackst, and shorts off, along with the bandages on his hands, because Wirtz needed to see how his health was. John hesistantly removed his clothes until he was in nothing but his pants, but he downright refused to take off the bandages.

"Harry wrapped them," he said stubbornly, the only thing close to an explanation he offered.

"Well, John," Sherlock said with false resignation, "I guess since the bandages are so old, you'll just get an infection and we'll have to have your hands amputated."

"What's that mean?" John asked curiously.

"Your hands will be gone. We'll have to have them cut off." Sherlock said simply, and John paled and hastily unwrapped his hands. There were cuts covering his fingers and palms from where some kind of sharp bits (plate shards, Sherlock remembered John saying) had sliced him. They were healing, but he might have scars.

"How did this happen?" Wirtz asked with barely hidden sorrow.

"I dropped a plate and Father made me clean up. I'm glad Sherlock doesn't make me pick up the broken stuff with my bare hands when I accidentally knock things over or drop them." John beamed up at Sherlock. Sherlock returned the smile, but it was empty, merely a twitching of muscles to reassure John that he was safe and Sherlock still did not despise him.

Wirtz quietly cleaned and rebandaged John's hands. John winced, but he still didn't make a sound of pain or protest.

About twenty minutes later, John was happily dressed and looking at pictures in the Grimm book in Sherlock's chair. Wirtz finished explaining John's basic food plan and what kind of salve Sherlock should get for John's bruises. "I'd have him x-rayed for any fractures or breaks I might have missed if you can," Wirtz said with a glance at John. "He's a nice boy. Contact me again if you need anything."

"Thank you for your help," Sherlock said, and Wirtz departed. Sherlock, for lack of something to do, eyed the kitchen with all the science equipment and experiments and such. John could get seriously hurt if something got knocked over again. Sherlock set to clean it up.

John happily hummed a tune while looking at pictures in his Grimm book, oblivious to everything but the stories the book contained.

* * *

They went shopping for more things for John. John was in awe at practically everything all the stores contained- clothes, books, toys, people. Anything and everything was splendid to him, and that just made Sherlock's day a little brighter. John's nonstop thanking was slightly irritating, but also a little heartwarming. John was happy and Sherlock was happy.

Lestrade contacted Sherlock. They hadn't caught John's father yet, but Lestrade had requested that policemen lurk near the flat in case he returned home. The killer was still at large and Lestrade was determined to catch him. Sherlock decided not to tell John, though he became more cautious about keeping John with him and making sure the tiny boy never ran off alone.

Ice cream made little boys happy, Sherlock noted at one point. He bought a cone with one scoop of strawberry-flavoured ice cream for John in the park, and John had been ecstatic after discovering he liked the taste. The two visited the park again the next evening because John wanted to feed the pigeons. Sherlock didn't want to go so close to nightfall (who knew where John's father was hiding,) but there would be less people, and John feared crowds. They'd be together the whole time, Sherlock reassured himself. What could possibly happen in the park?

Sherlock handed John a piece of bread from the loaf he'd brought. "Rip it up and throw the crumbs in front of you," he said as they sat beside each other on a park bench, John's feet dangling and Sherlock's arm around his shoulder, bringing him close to keep him warm and make him feel safe.

John tore the white bread into tiny little bits and pieces and tossed then lightly onto the dirt and grass in front of them. The two waited a moment, John eager and Sherlock content, for the pigeons to show. A trickle of them came a-pecking, and John ripped up more bread and tossed it their way in encouragement. Soon the bench was surrounded by birds, cooing and eating as much bread as they liked. John giggled as two pigeons started pecking at each other over one crumb. He ripped up more bread.

"There's enough for everyone," he said to the birds, and Sherlock didn't bother to remind him that birds couldn't understand him or talk back.

They sat in contentment in the darkening twilight for a while before John noticed an interesting little section of flowers. "Look, Sherlock, yellow fluffy flowers!" He pointed.

"They're just dandelions," Sherlock said.

"They're called dandelions? Neat! Dandelions, dandelions, dandelions." John tried out the word. He seemed to like it. He craned his neck to look up at Sherlock pleadingly. "Can I go pick some?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. There weren't many people in the park now, but it was darker out. "It might not be safe," he said, and John's eager face was filled with disappointment. Sherlock felt a little pang of guilt. It was just a few flowers. Besides, Mrs. Hudson's birthday was coming up, and she'd probably like some flowers.

"Oh, alright, but I'm coming with you." Sherlock gave in, and John cheered. He hopped down from the bench, scattering the idiotic, frightened pigeons away. John instinctively ran to try and catch them, as many small children do. He didn't get very far. "John, come back!" Sherlock yelled after him, and John skidded to a halt and then ran back to Sherlock. "Don't wander off like that," Sherlock scolded angrily.

John fidgeted and stared at the ground. "Sorry, Sherlock," he apologized sincerely. Sherlock merely grunted and took John's hand, walking towards the flowers. John got on his knees by the little patch and started picking the prettiest ones. Sherlock stood behind him and watched.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. Sherlock dug in his pocket. It was Lestrade. The detective inspector might have news of John's father, but it might not been anything Sherlock wanted John to hear. Sherlock answered the call and walked a meter or two away. "Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Sherlock, he got away." Lestrade said, voice tinted with frustration.

"What?" Sherlock said sharply, sparing a glance at John before turning in the other direction and lowering his voice. "Who? The murderer?"

"Yeah, the kid's dad. He stopped by his flat for some reason and the police went after him but he got away. Two officers are in the hospital. Where are you?" Lestrade said.

"When did this happen?" Sherlock asked urgently, completely ignoring Lestrade's question.

A pause. "I dunno, couldn't have been more than a half hour ago." Lestrade sounded a bit lost.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?!" Sherlock snarled as quietly as he could.

"Sorry," Lestrade said acidly, "I was at the hospital worrying about some friends of mine."

A thrashing sound and rustling and crunching of leaves and twigs caught Sherlock's attention and he spun around, not bothering to make a sardonic reply. His eyes scanned for something out of place, something missing, something that could've caused the unnatural noise.

Sherlock's heart skipped two beats when he realized what was horribly, terribly wrong.

There were some bushes with snapped twigs and the flowers were trampled and John was gone.

* * *

John watched Sherlock answer his phone and walk a little ways away. He guessed that Sherlock didn't want him to hear whatever it was that was going to be said. John was kind of curious as to what Sherlock would talk about, but he knew better than to try and eavesdrop. He merely went back to choosing the best flowers for his favorite adult woman in the world: Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's landlady (not housekeeper.)

He had been watching a bee buzz around one flower when he heard his name whispered from the bush-hedges right next to him. "John," the voice said shortly with ragged breathing. John couldn't tell whose voice it was. He glanced back at Sherlock, who was deep in conversation with someone over the phone. Should he answer the voice? No, he decided, he should run, what if it was someone bad? He started to stand up, and he opened his mouth to call Sherlock's name.

And then a hand was covering his mouth and he could taste the sweat and he bit down but the man (it had to be a man, with that kind of muscles and callouses) didn't let go, John could just taste blood now, too, and he was being yanked back into the bushes and he smelled alcohol and he flailed and Sherlock help oh god it's Father _it's Father._

The strong arms wrapped around John but not in the nice way that Sherlock did, not a hug. John couldn't move. He felt like he was being crushed. Father (because it was Father crooning in his ear now, saying, "Don't you worry, Johnny, I'll make it quick. I can't get caught, now, see, you know what happened and I can't get caught,") stood up and took off in the shadows, keeping John clenched in his arms and John was so, so scared. He desperately tried to scream, but the only sound he made was muffled and almost inaudible. He was being taken further and further away from Sherlock and the park. Father rushed down the sidewalk and turned into the first alley he saw. No one came after him, no one that John could see.

And then they were alone. In the dark. In an alley. With the rats and the rubbish and the dirt and oh god-

He was as good as dead now.

* * *

"John's been taken," Sherlock yelled urgently into his phone as he rushed through the bushes and looked for the footprints (a man's) that would lead to John and the man Sherlock was going to kill when he layed hands on him.

"What?!" Lestrade said with astonishment. Sherlock kept his eyes on the ground, following the heavy footsteps of the kidnapper.

"I turned my back for one minute and he was gone. I'm following the trail now. Hurry." Sherlock's heart pounded and his brain was clouded with worry.

"What street?" Lestrade demanded, sounding grim.

* * *

"Sshh, John." Father whispered as he lowered John to the ground, laying him flat on his back. He adjusted his hands so that he held John's arms together above his head with one hand and covered John's mouth with the other. A tear trickled out of John's eye as he stared up at his drunken murderer of a father. He squirmed, trying to wriggle free, and to his shock, Father let go of his hands. Immediately he tried to jab the man's eyes, but then Father's meaty hand closed around his throat and he couldn't breathe he couldnt breathe he couldnt breathe and both hands were wrapped around his throat now, slowly squeezing the life out of him. The world had black spots and John clawed at Father's tightening hands, mouth open wide trying to gasp for air but he was dying because he couldn't breathe

And then he heard a gunshot and an angry roar and he could _breathe_ again. John took shaky, gasping breaths, pulling as much oxygen into his lungs as possible, but there were still black spots in his sight so he couldn't see all of Sherlock, who was hovering over him with a desperate, scared expression on his face. Why would Sherlock be scared? John could breath now. Though, it would be better if he didn't feel so lightheaded.

"John," Sherlock said distantly, as if speaking through a thick, thick fog or through a thick layer of glass. "John, I need you to look at me. Keep your eyes fixed on me." Actually, it was more like he was talking underwater. Yes, that was the better comparison.

Harry would tell stories when we were injured, John's oxygen-deprived mind vaguely thought, but she's dead and Sherlock doesn't know the tradition so I have to do it.

John's voice was hoarse and scratchy. "Once," he began weakly, "once upon a t-t-" he tried to choke out the words- "time-"

And then his eyes rolled back into his head and he fell into darkness.


	6. Hospital

_I've tried to do as much research as I can to make this fanfic as accurate as possible, but I am not perfect, I may get some things wrong. I ask your apologies in advance._

_I'd like to thank Avid Reader a few good, in-depth suggestions for this fic._

* * *

Sherlock blinked when Lestrade snapped his fingers in front of his face.

"Oi! You in there?" Lestrade asked with concern.

"Yes, yes." Sherlock brushed Lestrade's hand away and blinked his eyes. The waiting room in the hospital was relatively quiet. Not many people were there, and those who were there were too concerned and worried to speak much. Lestrade was looking haggard and his clothes were wrinkled. He had a coffeestain on his coat but didn't have any signs that he'd eaten recently. He was stressed. He smelled of disinfectant- He'd been somewhere in the hospital before coming here.

"They let me in to see John's father," Lestrade began. Ah, that was right. John's father had been hospitalized, too, after Lestrade shot him in the leg in that alley.

"And?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Lestrade sat down in an uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock. "He's forty one years old, British, born in Bath. Was married to a woman named Clara, but she died while giving birth to John. Harriet was born before John. They'd always lived in poverty. I'm pretty sure that Henry- that's his name- didn't snap until after Clara died. They didn't have a happy marriage but he drove himself nuts thinking about 'what could have been,' I guess. All in all a pretty unhappy business. He wouldn't confess to anything until I told him that we'd found Harry's body, but in the end I got a recorded _and_ written and signed statement- He admits to killing Harriet, abusing both Harriet and John, and attempting to kill John in that alley. We've got him where we want him, Sherlock. He won't be getting out of this one."

Sherlock let out a relieved breath. "Good," he muttered darkly. The images of John being pinned to the ground and strangled flitted through his mind and he quickly suppressed them.

Lestrade frowned for a moment in thought, then said with creeping suspicion, "How long have you been here, anyway? And when was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock's brows knitted together. "That depends. What day is it?"

"_Sher_lock," Lestrade began, but before he could scold any further, a male nurse stepped into the waiting room and said loudly, "Family of John Hamish Watson?"

Sherlock stood up so fast that he almost knocked over his chair. "Here," he said, and Lestrade stood up too. Sherlock's face was creased with poorly-disguised anxiety.

"Ah, yes. Dr. Sawyer will see you now. Follow me."

"I don't want to see 'Dr. Sawyer', I want to see John," Sherlock muttered under his breath, but he tugged on Lestrade's sleeve anyway and strode after the short nurse. Lestrade followed quickly. The three made their way through the hospital. Both Lestrade and Sherlock wrinkled their noses at the medicinal and disinfectant smells, but the nurse had long since grown used to such things.

Dr. Sawyer was a Caucasian woman in her early thirties with auburn hair, freckles, and blue eyes. She smiled at the trio as they approached and adjusted her glasses, glancing at a clipboard she held. The male nurse made a lazy hand gesture to the doctor and then turned to leave.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Sarah Sawyer." The woman held out her hand to shake. "Are you relatives of John?"

Sherlock ignored the hand, instead looking at the closed door she stood in front of, wishing he could dash in and see John immediately. Lestrade took it upon himself to shake her hand.

"John's only living relative is currently being treated for a bullet wound in the leg and will soon be in prison." Sherlock said coldly.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Lestrade introduced himself. "Mr. Anti-social here is the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. We're currently sort-of-caretakers for John. Sherlock more than me."

"'Consulting detective?'" Dr. Sawyer repeated curiously.

"The only one in the world, I invented the job." Sherlock recited impatiently. "How is he?"

Dr. Sawyer glanced at the door behind her and pursed her lips. "John Watson is suffering from severe undernutrition, tissue damage, and possibly sever PTSD. He has bruising on his legs, forearms, collarbone, abdomen, and neck. He's recovering from the asphyxiation at a quick rate, which is lucky. What I'm most concerned about is the undernutrition, PTSD, and fractured rib."

Sherlock's intake of breath was sharp.

"But he will recover?" Lestrade interjected quickly with a worried glance at Sherlock.

"With the right treatment, certainly. There may be some things that we can't control about his condition, but we'll get him to the best state we possibly can. With your help, of course, or the help of whoever will be his legal guardian." Dr. Sawyer assured.

"What is it that we can't control?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we can try our best to make sure some effects don't happen, but due to his undernutrition he may have learning disabilities and his growth could be stunted. We can't quite tell this early in, but you should be prepared for this." Dr. Sawyer said.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. Leaning disabilities, stunted growth, PTSD, and so many injuries. What did John do to deserve this?

"I hope you haven't bothered with any vaccinations," a pompous voice said from behind Lestrade, and then Mycroft was there, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and crushing it in a tight grip, helping Sherlock reign in his emotions and become as cold as ice to deal with the situation.

"No, it seems that he's already had those." Dr. Sawyer smiled thinly. "And who might you be?"

"Mycroft Holmes." The umbrella-wielding man said with a false smile.

"He's in charge of the hospital bill." Sherlock grinned without humor and patted Mycroft on the back. Mycroft's own smile turned lemon-sour.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed with a dirty look at Sherlock. "It appears that I am."

"May we see John?" Lestrade interrupted.

Dr. Sawyer paused. "Only if he wants to see you. Wait here." She entered the room that Sherlock so wanted to be in and closed the door behind her. Lestrade, Mycroft, and Sherlock waited quietly for her to return. Sherlock fidgeted. Mycroft's umbrella tapped on the floor. Lestrade twiddled with the house keys in his pocket.

Dr. Sawyer came out again. "He's asleep. Maybe another time?"

Sherlock inwardly swore. Mycroft caught the look on his brother's face and said, "I think it would be best if we check on him. Just to let Sh- let _us_ see that he's alright. Well, as alright as he can be." Mycroft's smile was polite, but his eyes were dark and threatening.

Dr. Sawyer looked unnerved for a moment before quickly nodding. "Certainly. Come in, come in." The door was opened and Sherlock strode inside, coat billowing dramatically behind him for the four feet or so that he walked before he halted abruptly at the foot of John's hospital bed.

John looked so small, lying there in the large blankets with his tiny, sandy-blonde head on a big white pillow. He had bruises around his neck in finger-tip shapes that made Sherlock see red. The consulting detective had to take a deep breath to shove his fury away and lock it in the furthest corner of his Mind Palace. He focused on the fact that John was breathing, alive and safe in the hospital, out of Henry Watson's clutches. His eyelids were closed and he slept. Sherlock found a little amusement in the faint trickle of drool leaving the boy's mouth. He looked very peaceful.

And then he was groaning and fluttering his eyes.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. "John?" he asked urgently.

"Sherlock?" John snapped awake and sat up, but cried out when he jostled his injured rib.

"Ssh, easy, I'm here." Sherlock quickly knelt by John's bedside. He took no note of Lestrade and Mycroft leaving to give the two a bit of privacy.

"Sherlock." John looked distraught before suddenly beaming at him and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders lightly. "You're here."

"Yes, John, I'm here. It's alright now." Sherlock hugged the boy gently, not wanting to injure him any further. He slowly released him and helped him lean back on his pillow. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts all over," John complained.

"I know, I know. You'll feel better soon. In seven or so weeks the rib will be healed and by then the bruises will have gone away, too. We'll feed you up and you'll be out and running around in no time." Sherlock gave John a tight smile. "Has Dr. Sawyer been kind to you?"

"Yes!" John chirped happily. "She's really nice. And pretty. I'm gonna be a doctor, too! When I grow up!"

"That's nice." Sherlock wondered how long that dream would last.

Sherlock stayed with John for another hour and a half or so. John talked a lot about nothing in particular, something that Sherlock would normally detest, but actually enjoyed this time since it was John doing the talking. John spoke of food, medicine, and the nurses there, but he didn't mention anything about Harry or his father. Sherlock wisely did the same. John seemed happy, for the most part.

"When can I come home, Sherlock?" John asked at one point.

Sherlock blinked. "I don't know, John."

"But I want to come home _now._"

"I want you to come home now, too, John," Sherlock said, and he realized that he meant it. He wanted John to come home to the flat. "I'll talk to your doctors and figure out when it will be alright to bring you home."

"Thank you, Sherlock." John said happily, and Sherlock smiled.

Sherlock had to leave when Dr. Sawyer came in and told him they needed to treat John. Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him. Lestrade and Mycroft had waited for him and they looked to him now.

"Still thinking of adopting the boy?" Mycroft asked in a wry voice. "Surely you see now that he's more trouble than he's worth. What with the talking and the whining and the constant need for attention- Not to mention the health issues and mental troubles he's certain to have. You're better off finding him a nice foster home, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a breath. "No, Mycroft, you're wrong."

Mycroft looked flabbergasted. "What?"

"I'm going to adopt John."

"You're _what?_" Lestrade gaped. "_You?_ Raise a _child? _Sherlock, that's- that's crazy!"

"It's not crazy." Sherlock said stubbornly. He couldn't really explain it. He just cared so much for John and wanted to watch him grow up. He needed to. He just felt so- so frustratingly _parental_ around the boy, and he was hooked on the feeling. He wanted John to be safe and happy, and he wanted to John to be safe and happy with_ him_.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock carefully. "Whatever happened to you, Brother? You've changed. I thought I'd taught you- I thought you'd learned that caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. All lives end. All hearts are broken. But you've opened up and let this child in. I only hope it won't lead to ruin."

Sherlock watched Mycroft cooly while Lestrade just looked kind of lost.

"Very well. I'll support you in this foolish endeavor. But don't come crying to me when it falls to pieces in your hands, Brother dear." Mycroft smiled grimly.

"It won't." Sherlock replied with determination.


End file.
